Murder for Two (6 page)

He gave the piece of check to Casey and picked up his drink. It was, Casey saw, the righthand part of a check, showing the date, which was of that day, and the amount—two hundred dollars. Of the signature there remained only three letters—
ing
, and on the line where the payee was written there was but one—an
h
.

“It looks as if it was made out to cash,” he remarked.

“Now figure the signature.”

“You figure it,” Casey said.

Manahan came back. “Yes,” he said and gave Byrkman's address.

“That shows we live right,” Logan said. “You want to come, Flash?”

“In your car and on your gas?”

“Sure,” Logan replied and told Manahan to stay around until he got someone to take over.

Bert went on his way and when they got out on the sidewalk, Logan drew Casey to one side. “Get rid of the dame,” he said. “Send her home or something.”

“What makes you think I'm going at all?”

“You're always yelling about pictures.”

“Yah!” Casey snorted derisively. “I could have grabbed a couple of that car if it hadn't been for you.”

“Sure. And got me in bad with every other camera in town. Well, this time you can take one. Of Byrkman, maybe. What's the matter, don't you want to know who killed Taylor? Then quit arguing. With your kind of luck you might even be able to help me out a little. Only ditch the girl.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

If Logan hadn't suggested the idea, Casey would have probably done so on his own. He knew it was getting late, and he'd certainly done his duty so far, and what he wanted now was to get her home and off his hands. But Logan made the mistake of insisting, and Casey, already irritable from strain and weariness, was a rugged individualist.

“I told you she was with me,” he said. “If I go she goes,” he said, and before Logan could reply, he called to Karen Harding, who stood some feet away, waiting. “You want to ride out to Byrkman's with us?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “If you're sure—”

“Sure I'm sure,” Casey said. “The lieutenant himself suggested it. Get in,” he said and opened the door of the police car.

Karen Harding scrambled into the back seat and Casey got in with her. Logan was still standing on the sidewalk and even in the semi-darkness you could see his neck bulge.

“Well, come on,” Casey said. “What're we waiting for?”

Chapter Five

A L
ADY
T
AKES A
P
ICTURE

T
HE ADDRESS
Manahan had given Logan proved to be a double house on a quiet, tree-lined street, and when they went up on the steps they saw that Henry Byrkman occupied the lower flat. Logan punched the bell and said he'd do the talking.

“Mr. Byrkman?” he asked when the door opened. “I'm Lieutenant Logan, from Police Headquarters. I'd like to talk to you for a few minutes.”

Henry Byrkman had put on the porch light when he opened the door and now he stood there blinking, a thin, colorless, mousy little man with rimless glasses and a wart on his cheek. It took him so long to find his tongue that Logan moved in, forcing him to drop back.

“Why, yes,” he said then. “Come in.”

They went into a small hall and through this to a living-room that was surprisingly well-furnished considering the exterior of the house. There were a lot of books, and the walls were covered with water colors and in one corner was an easel and a paint-smeared bench.

Byrkman asked them to sit down and Karen Harding walked over to a corner near the inner hall, as though she was getting used to corner chairs and keeping out of the way. Logan took a chair near the center table and Byrkman sat opposite him. Casey, opening his plate-case, took a straight-backed chair a few feet away.

“You used to work for Matt Lawson, didn't you?” Logan said.

“Lawson?” Byrkman let his brows come up but behind the rimless glasses something flickered and died.

Logan smiled thinly and his jaw got hard. He leaned forward, dangling his hat between his hands. “Look,” he said patiently, “you're going to save a lot of time and perhaps a little trouble for yourself by telling the truth. We didn't ride all the way out here to put on a quiz program. You used to work for Matt Lawson.”

“Yes, I did,” Byrkman said. “But”—he looked helplessly about—“I don't understand this. I mean, why you're here.”

“You will,” Logan said. “Your name used to be Byrnes. What made you change it?”

Byrkman's shoulders seemed to sag at that. He ran his hand over his hair. He didn't have much and what there was he had combed straight back.

“No particular reason—except—well, you see, I do some painting and I got to using the name because it was different.”

“You changed it all of a sudden, didn't you? After you left Lawson's office?”

Casey had opened his camera and checked the focus. He screwed in a flashbulb and listened to Byrkman's reply, forgetting now his previous annoyance at Logan in his interest at seeing him work. He always liked to watch Logan work—on somebody else—and now, knowing that the lieutenant had practically nothing to go on, he waited to see how far he would get.

“Why did you leave?” he said now.

“We—we had a disagreement.”

Logan looked pointedly about the room. “You've got a nice place here. Where're you working now?”

“I'm not, at the moment.”

“When did you work last? Or maybe you have an independent income?”

“I have a small income,” Byrkman said.

“Didn't it start about the time you left Lawson?”

“Why—shortly after that, I guess. An uncle died.”

“Oh, yes,” Logan said, and Casey thought,
Boy, how you guess 'em!
“You know John Perry, don't you?” Logan continued.

Again Byrkman hesitated, but Logan's steady gaze pinned him down. “Yes, I knew who he was.”

“Lawson and Perry had some trouble, didn't they? How long after that did you leave?”

“I don't remember.”

“Well, what was the nature of that trouble?”

“John Perry came to Mr. Lawson with some formula having to do with oil. Mr. Lawson paid him five thousand dollars for it and later when Mr. Lawson perfected it and began to license it, John Perry said he had been cheated.”

“He hadn't been, of course?”

“No.”

“Go on.”

“Perry assaulted Mr. Lawson. He attacked him with a heavy ash tray and Mr. Lawson had him arrested.”

“Did you know that John Perry is out of jail?”

“N-o.”

“Do you know Rosalind Taylor?”

Byrkman swallowed visibly and beads of moisture stood out on his sallow forehead. “I know of her.”

“How would you like to ride down to the station with me?”

Byrkman drew back, jaw sagging. “You can't do that.”

“Can't I?”

“But I haven't done anything.”

Logan was relentless. He leaned forward, his eyes half closed. “You'd have a chance to think if I put you in a cell, and maybe you'd finally figure out that this runaround is getting nowhere. Now did you have a date with Rosalind Taylor tonight or not?”

“Yes,” Byrkman said in a voice Casey could barely hear.

“Here or at her place?”

Byrkman wet his lips and took a breath. “Here.”

“When?”

“She—didn't say. She said she wasn't sure when she could come.”

“Did she come?”

“No.”

“Do you know why? Did you know that she was shot to death tonight? In her car. And within a couple blocks of her apartment?”

Byrkman took hold of the table. His cheeks were chalky now and the breath he had taken whistled out and just then Casey let go with the flashbulb. Byrkman jumped, almost knocking over his chair, then sank back and sort of caved in when he saw what Casey had done. Logan rose, glaring at Casey.

“You couldn't wait, huh?” he said disgustedly.

“You said I could have a picture,” Casey said.

“Well, you got it.” Logan put on his hat and Karen Harding got up and came across the room. “We've got some checking to do,” Logan told Byrkman. “You may have to tell some of that story to the D.A. So stick around; I'll probably want you to come down and see me.”

They went out. The porch light was extinguished and they stood a moment on the sidewalk. This time Logan took the bull by the horns.

“We may be at this for some time yet, Miss Harding,” he said. “We can take you home—”

Karen Harding said, “But—” and looked at Casey.

“Or,” said Logan, “we can find you a cab.”

Casey didn't know what Logan had in mind, but he had an idea it might be worthwhile to find out. As for the girl, he decided enough was enough. To take her to dinner and maybe go some place and have a couple of drinks—well, that was one thing; this acting as nursemaid was something else.

“All right,” the girl said, when she saw Casey wasn't going to offer anything. “A cab would be fine.”

They found one at a stand over on Commonwealth and put her in it and she gave Casey her hand. She said she was very grateful to him and hoped she would see him soon.

“She's a swell kid,” Casey said when the cab drove off.

“She's too nice for you,” Logan said. “I could appreciate a number like that—if I could ever find one on my day off. But no, I have to run into that kind when I've got a lousy murder on my hands. Of course,” he added when he shifted gears, “I might call her up some time.”

“Sure,” Casey said. “You could tell her how a great detective cracks a murder case.”

“This detective had better crack this one,” Logan said. “An ordinary reporter wouldn't be tough enough; it has to be somebody like this Taylor woman.”

In the taxi, Karen Harding told the driver to go slowly, and when the police car passed her, she waited until the tail light was two blocks ahead before she directed the driver back to Henry Byrkman's place.

Now, thinking it over, her conscience bothered her a little. She should, she supposed, have told the lieutenant. She would certainly have told Casey and she comforted herself by saying that it was Logan's own fault. She really intended to tell him, and then before she had a chance he had practically told her she was in the way and had better go home like a good little girl.

Of course, it was nothing but luck that gave her a chance to look into the bedroom. If Henry Byrkman hadn't left the light on and the door part-way open, and if she hadn't taken that chair in the corner where she could see a little piece of the bedroom, she would never have noticed the suitcase.

It sat on the bed, its top back, and even from where she sat she could see that it was full. When she finally rose she had detoured slightly and taken a final peek and seen the second handbag on the floor.

That certainly meant that Henry Byrkman had been interrupted in his packing. It would seem that Henry Byrkman was about to take a little trip or at least change his address. Now, thinking about it, she decided that even though Logan had ditched her, she should tell him what she'd seen. Suppose Henry Byrkman had murdered Rosalind Taylor—and he had a motive, didn't he?—if Rosalind was about to expose something criminal in Byrkman's past? Something, perhaps, that had to do with John Perry's going to prison and the formula Matt Lawson had stolen.

She sat up, seeing a lighted drugstore ahead, and told the driver to stop. She went in, found the telephone booth, and called Police Headquarters. When she could not locate Logan, she phoned the
Express
, asked for Casey. When told he was out, she got his home telephone number and called that.

“Well,” she said half aloud when she hung up, “that's that. And it's your own fault.”

In the taxi again she resumed her journey, knowing now that she had to do something, though not at all knowing what that something might be. The taxi rolled steadily on. A block from the intersecting street where Henry Byrkman lived, a car passed them, cut in, and then made the same turn. When the taxi followed, its lights dimmed because of the restrictions, the car was just pulling into the curb a block and a half ahead.

Karen Harding, watching absently, suddenly gave the car her attention. She sat up and spoke to the driver and the cab slowed, creeping across the intersection and finally coming to a stop about a hundred feet behind the other car. The driver, a blue-chinned individual with glasses, looked back at her as though she might be a mental case.

“Now what?” he wanted to know.

“I don't know,” she said. “Just wait and—leave your motor on, please. Maybe you'd better turn off your lights too.”

The driver obeyed and settled back on the cushions. Karen Harding sat on the edge of the seat, a strange excitement stirring her. If this car had come for Henry Byrkman it would explain his packed bags, she told herself. But if he came out, with whoever it was who had come for him, then what should she do?

Round and round the question went and in the end she asked herself what Casey would do under the circumstances. Viewed in this manner, she could find two alternatives: she could try and find out where Henry Byrkman went, or she could take a chance with her blackout bulbs and hope to get a picture of whoever came for him.

She opened her handbag and began to adjust her Leica before she made up her mind. Following the other car seemed like the best idea, but that depended on the skill of her driver. If she lost the car ahead she would have nothing and then she could never face Casey or the lieutenant—not that she owed
him
anything; whereas a picture—

The door of Byrkman's house opened as she debated and when she saw the three men silhouetted briefly before the light was turned out, she made up her mind, twisting a blackout bulb into the flashgun and speaking to the driver.